


In That Place

by DragonsandInk



Category: Ib (Video Game)
Genre: Aged Up Ib, And one for Guertena, Drama, Garry forgetting who he is and living in the Gallery, Guertena and Mary's are before Ib enters the gallery, Ib and Garry's are different endings, Ib trying to move on from the Gallery, Inspired painter Guertena, Lots of drama, Mary growing up with the Ladies and wondering where her dad is, Mostly pretty mellow, One for each main character, Other, With an ever existant undertone of terror and disparity, but you know, one shots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 20:45:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8260024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonsandInk/pseuds/DragonsandInk
Summary: There is a place that you can only see through a window. Nothing moves in that place from what you can see, and nothing lives there. Until you fall through the frame that is that window and become a part of it yourself. There are four people who have fallen through that frame and seen the real place. And this is what they truly think of it. From within the Gallery you are born.





	1. Brought Here

**Author's Note:**

> So this is going to be a short series of four one-shots, each less than eight pages, and each focusing on one of the human characters from Ib and their relation with the Gallery. The first one is going to be Weiss Guertena’s point of view. I never really thought of him as the painting troll that some people think of him as, but as sort of a melancholy character. To create such beautiful and deep artwork, someone has to be more than just crazy.
> 
> If you are a native Chinese speaker, AoiAmber has translated this chapter! You can read it here: goldenspoon.lofter.com/post/1eb02e _69157a4

Weiss blinked in confusion at his surroundings.  Not that they were strange, in fact, it was a rather plain hallway with olive green walls that he found himself in.  What surprised him was that he had surroundings at all.  They were solid, bright, and as real as walls could get, which meant that he was, undoubtedly, _alive_.  He had read too many books where the clichéd character wakes up and thinks they’re dead so he had determined that if he were to die and _wake up_ then he would know he was alive.  Weiss Guertena did not like to be cliché.

But even so, he was _very_ certain he was dead.

He had finished his latest work, a large hanging painting with abstract images sprawling and blending together so it seemed like it moved, only hours ago.  He hadn’t even taken off his smock before sitting in his main room, sipping rose hip tea and watching the news lazily while waiting for the paint to dry.  The painting had been commissioned by a church (a rare occurrence that he couldn’t just pass up) and it wasn’t what they had requested at all so he was fairly nervous they wouldn’t accept it.  He couldn’t help but let himself get carried away once he had a paintbrush in hand but he had, as with all his paintings, poured his heart and soul into its making.  The making of a _Fabricated World_.

It was when his chest seized up that his cup slipped out of his hand.  The hot liquid spilled over his pants and apron, but it went unheeded as his hands clutched at his chest and he gasped for air that didn’t seem to come properly.  He was very aware of the sudden cold that started at his fingertips and toes that spread even as he continued gasping, unable to feel a pulse anywhere in his body any longer.  The worst part was the wait.  Even as loss of motion gripped him, Weiss’ eyes continued seeing the news reel and his mind kept repeating _heart attack-heart attack-heart attack._

He had died.  Of that he was certain.  He lived with no one and the people from the church weren’t expected to pick up their painting for another three days.  He had not been saved and therefore he died.  And yet, he wasn’t _dead_.  He found his heart beating again, his smock an unstained ivory white, and warmth through his body that could come from nothing other than being alive.  And it confounded him so.

He began walking down the hallway, intent on solving this mystery.  He’d always liked puzzles and this one was no excuse.  Perhaps she should have feared for his life, waking up in such a situation, but really it had just been saved, or something like it.  As he examined the fern colored walls and plush, chartreuse carpet he wondered if perhaps he _was_ dead and death was really just a simulation of life.  Would that make this heaven or hell then?

With some surprise, he realized the wall was no longer empty but had a painting hung on the right side.  _His_ painting.  He almost laughed out loud at the appropriateness of it.  _Heartbeat_.  This was Hell for certain.

Reaching out, he touched the unprotected canvas, only to jump backwards as the lime green line across it _moved_ , accompanied by a loud echo of his own heart.  In amazement he touched it again, to hear the loud base and spike of the line beat in tandem with his own heart.  A wide grin split his face as he felt almost giddy.  He didn’t know how, but his exact vision for the painting had _come true_.

Feeling soothed by the sound and assurance that his heart was still beating, he took the painting off its hook and continued down the hallway, searching for another painting and nearly bursting in excitement for what it would do.

 _The Juggler_.  It took only a moment before the clown began to juggle expertly and Weiss was taken back to the day at the circus he had spent with his grandson.  What a happy day.  The clown smiled back at him, laughter accompanied by circus music floating out from the edges of the frame.  Suddenly, this became one of his favorite paintings.

He continued, coming across other paintings he had made with his own hands.  _Enlightenment_ , _The Geometrical Fish_ , _Marvelous Night_.  He even found some of his statues, like the _Taste-Cleansing Tree_ , and the sisters _Uh_ and _Ah_.

He looked over one of his favorites, _The Red Lady_.  It wasn’t really the painting he liked, but the satisfaction it brought to him whenever he looked at it.  It had been this painting that drove unwanted suitors away from his home.  It drove many undesirables away, actually.  Professing an undying love for a painted face with red eyes did that apparently.

He was reminiscing one such occasion when the painting began to move.  He expected this, of course, so it did not surprise him.  What _did_ was when the Lady’s hands came out of her painting and rested themselves on his shoulders, steadying the wobbling frame and allowing the woman to lean forward so their foreheads touched.  Her walnut brown hair hung around their faces like a curtain so that her garnet eyes seemed to be his whole world.

“Welcome home, Master.”

Red explained that he was in his own gallery, where what had been mere vision when he painted became real.  She admitted her utter joy for him being there, snuggling the back of his neck from where she hung on his back.  Weiss wouldn’t leave her behind.  Especially when she switched between calling him husband and master.  She led him to what she called the supply closet, filled from corner to corner with painting supplies of all kinds.

He wanted to drop her, hands itching to start painting and see his work come to life before his eyes.  Unrestricted in any ideas he might have.  Red, anticipating his thoughts, giggled and told him to let her down and go ahead.

He propped her on a box, as she could only get out of her frame up to her waist, and set up an easel near her, chatting easily as he found a palette and some paints, excited to get started even though, realistically, he had only just finished _Fabricated World_ a few hours ago.  He painted and painted, never feeling hungry and rarely feeling tired, falling asleep on the floor with Red brushing her fingers softly through his hair when he did.

Eventually a trio of statues found them— _Death to the Individual_ —and though they did all act eerily similar, moving in synch more often than not, their company was welcome.  They took to rearranging the gallery, putting like paintings together in rooms and coming to him whenever they found a nice place for him to paint in, a new supply closet, or needed a door to get to a new part of the gallery.

Weiss played with his hands; painting, sculpting, writing, sometimes even stitching or gardening too, though he wasn’t as good at either.  Day and night didn’t exist in the gallery, and neither did hunger or loneliness.  Whenever he might feel bored of his meager company he would simply paint or sculpt some more.  He ended up with probably fifty or so _Ladies_ of all different colors and around the same number of _Individuals_ to fill the halls and rooms.  Red, the first _Lady_ and his first “wife” although all the Ladies called him “husband” once asked why he never painted their bottoms.  He found himself blushing but unabashedly answered, “Because if I did, I am certain I would not be able to keep myself from you.”

He was answered by many giggles and kisses from the Ladies, trying to make him blush more.  Weiss was happier than he could have ever imagined, having long forgotten the real world and happy to remain in his own forever.  _Certainly_ , he thought, _this must be Heaven_.

Until he remembered with a squeezing of his chest that he was not dead.

The _Ladies_ didn’t notice his sudden nervousness.  How he began to almost neglect his rose garden and forgot to acknowledge some of the more obscure paintings of his so they wouldn’t get lonely.  Red noticed him blinking more often than usual, keeping back the tears as he thought of being forced to leave this happy life, and when he excused it as dry eyes she suggested he paint some eye drops for himself.  It was embarrassing how many times it took him to make them correctly.

He didn’t have much time left and he knew that, but he wondered what to do with that remaining time, what he could create that would live long and happily in his gallery of wonders.  Thinking of his daughter that he’d left behind in the real world he smiled.  A daughter.  A child that was his and his alone.  She could be anything he wanted her to be.  Any age, any hair or eye color, any height—they didn’t have to look anything alike and she would still be his beloved daughter.

But he couldn’t leave her alone, oh no.  The _Individuals_ would do her bidding as they did for he, the _Ladies_ would raise her, and his books would entertain and teach her.  There was paper to draw with and his own many tea sets to play with.  Yes…friends…he set to work making dolls for his daughter.  The most he regularly stitched were the dresses on the Individuals or the couch he’d made for resting a long while back, so it didn’t come out perfectly, but they were good.  Indigo blue cloth for the skin with cute rounded hands and feet, bubblegum pink, bumblebee yellow, and shamrock green dresses, little sable black eyes that matched the color of the yarn hair, and upturned stitched mouths.  Yes, these would make good friends for his little girl.

As he painted, he came up with ideas for names with the _Ladies_.  He didn’t tell them of his time limit, only that he wanted a daughter and that he wanted them to love her as mothers did.  All the _Ladies_ were excited.  They were sisters to all the other artwork, not mothers or daughters and the idea of new family members always excited them.  Butterscotch hair, cerulean eyes, a cute teal scarf around her neck and a pear green dress with lace.

“Samantha?”

“How about Rose or Rosetta?  From that garden you like so much, Weiss?”

“No, her name has to be special.”

“Susan?”

“Maybe something like Crystal or Ruby?”

Weiss wrinkled his nose in response to the suggestion as he tried to make his daughter’s smile just right.  He could feel his chest grow tighter but ignored it.  _Just until I’m done.  Just until I’m done with her_.

“What about something more traditional?  Like Elizabeth or Margaret?

Weiss hummed slightly.  He at least liked the sound of it better.

“She looks like a Mary to me.”

Weiss paused—he was almost done anyways—and looked down at Red, who had been quietly watching him paint while listening to her sisters.  Weiss leaned back to look at his girl for a moment and found himself putting the name to her face.

“Mary,” he repeated and smiled.  “I like that.”  It was simple, cute, and elegant.  A long-lasting name.  He hoped Mary would think the same.

He was just putting his name on the bottom corner, within the petal of one of the roses around the border, when his chest seized up again.  The surprise came before the anguish as he realized he wouldn’t live to see his daughter come to life.  The paint had to be dry for the image to come alive, and that would still be a few hours yet.

The _Ladies_ were fawning over their soon to be daughter and so he excused himself from the room to take a breath and wash his hands.  His heart panged with something other than pain.  He didn’t want the gallery to know he died.  To sadden all the _Ladies_ and have the _Individuals_ wander aimlessly around the halls.  To have Mary’s first sight and knowledge when she woke up to be her dead father who couldn’t keep his heart beating long enough to tell her he loved her.  But he was certain she’d know.  Each brushstroke he’d made certainly conveyed the love he felt for her.  And the _Ladies_ would make sure she knew as well.

Weiss entered his inner gallery.  He supposed this would be the best place to die if any.

Using a pencil, he fashioned a door and stepped into a hallway with a staircase leading down.  He erased the door before heading down.  This wasn’t the first time he’d been here, though was certain it was the last time he’d use the door.  The gallery, with its many occupants, became stifling at times, to the point where his tall rose bushes even were too close for comfort.  The room at the bottom of the stairs held a single bed; large, comfortable, and always waiting for him.

He laid down, breathing heavily even though he’d expended little energy with his hand fisted in the fabric around his chest.  Perhaps this was not a heart attack this time but merely old age.  His body never seemed to age, but his spirit could certainly feel the time he’d spent in the gallery.  He wondered how many days or years he’d spent there, cheating death once and forgetting what his life had been.

It hadn’t been a particularly happy or exciting life before coming to the Gallery, filled with suitors after his family money, a daughter, son-in-law, and grandchild all created from a short and unsatisfying affair when he was much younger.  His artwork never being fully appreciated by his peers or the time it found itself in.  He had been thoroughly unhappy with everything but the sensation of a paintbrush or pencil in hand, allowing him to create to no end.

Dying the first time and coming to the Gallery had been the best thing to even happen to him.  He would certainly consider his true life having been in the Gallery.  He was _happy_ there.  Happier than he might have ever considered himself capable of.

His chest constricted painfully and he gasped at the familiarity of it.  This time, as he died, thrashing uncontrollably against fate, his eyes welled with tears.  He didn’t _want_ to die!  He wanted to see his daughter smile and make her some of his favorite rosehip tea.  He wanted to make his _Ladies_ laugh and let Red run her gentle fingers through his alabaster hair.  He wanted to live in his Gallery _forever_.  And as his limbs froze over and his eyes slowly turned unseeing, he got _exactly_ what he wished for.


	2. Left Here

Mary liked the Gallery.  From the moment she had woken up in a pile of glass and smelling like fresh paint she had been surrounded by friends of all kinds.  There were the _Ladies_ —so many of every color she could think of!—who called themselves her mothers and were always there for her.  They happily talked with her all day long, fussed over her dress when she got it messy, and would comb her hair with their fingers, like real mothers.  She also had the _Individuals_ who would come at her every beck and call, doing anything she asked of them, from juggling mannequin heads to finding the best place for a nap.

And she had her dolls, who were always smiling and would play any game she could think of.  She loved those little berry blue faces that would get smeared with tea when they played and she would giggle and wipe it off for them, lightly scolding even though she knew it would happen again.

But even if she had mothers, servants, and dolls, she felt a yawning hole in her heart where her father should be.  The _Ladies_ would gush his name and grin widely at the thought of him, happily telling Mary everything she wanted to know about him.  She would sit and listen happily to them, sometimes coloring pictures with crayons of what she thought he must look like.  The whole Gallery would brighten when they spoke his name, as if more than the warm lights overhead _he_ was what made their world shine.

When she had first woken up, there had been an exhilarated fuss over her until one of the _Ladies_ in a moss green dress asked where Weiss had gotten to and certainly he wanted to see his daughter, didn’t he?  The _Ladies_ looked around the Gallery, leaving her with a painting who called herself Red and didn’t seem worried about where her husband had gotten off to.

Mary wondered if he had left because he didn’t like her.

Red had patted her head and smiled, saying, “If you’d seen the love in his eyes when he was painting you then you never would have thought such a thing.”  With that, her heart swelled for the father she did not know.

After an extensive search of the entire Gallery and finding no sign of the painter, the _Ladies_ came to the conclusion that he must have gone back to his world for a while.  He had explained that he had other families over there and while he had never _said_ he missed them he was only human so of course he _did._   And what kind of wives would they be if they wouldn’t let their husband be happy?

They assured Mary that her papa would come back one day and until then they would teach her how to be a perfect little lady, the beloved daughter for their complete family.  They could wait.  After all, they didn’t age in the gallery.

But sometimes Mary found it hard to wait.  She would sneak off into the True Gallery sometimes to take peeks at the _Self Portrait_ and imagine what her father would look like if only the painting would turn around.  She would wander in his small rose garden and touch the soft petals of the multicolored flowers, feeling giddy to know that at some point her papa had touched them too.

She felt more and more nervous as time stretched on and there was still no notice of her father’s return.  She had read all his books twice, could find Mr. Hide & Seek in less than a minute and dodge all his tricks, had even started drawing a new part of the gallery and still Guertena hadn’t returned.

The _Ladies_ brushed off her worries, saying with utmost certainty that he would return.  The _Individuals_ didn’t even seem to notice their creator’s absence, just as eager to serve as ever.  The dolls didn’t understand Mary’s distress, only asking if she wanted to play.  Was she the only one who cared?  Was Mary the only one who worried about what had happened to her dear papa?

On the verge of tears, Mary went to the rose garden to sit among the petals and leaves, to be comforted by the heavy floral scent and the ghost of her father’s presence.  The garden was in a secret place of the gallery, a clever little area hidden behind another painting of the flowers that grew there.  The frame was light and easy to move aside, acting more like a door than wall fixture, meant only for the bit of privacy that her papa had apparently liked when tending to the roses.

Mary liked the privacy the garden held, because although she adored all the residents of the gallery (except, perhaps, the _Mistakes_ that no one liked) they were all so certain that Guertena would come back that she was afraid to voice her thoughts that maybe he wouldn’t.  That maybe he was trapped on the other side of their portraits and couldn’t return to them.  She was afraid she would be brushed off, or scolded for thinking like that, and yet couldn’t help it.  Petting her father’s precious roses and speaking to them as if they could communicate with him helped to calm her down.  Made her strong again so she could continue waiting.

The roses didn’t grow anymore without the care their master had once provided, but neither did they whither, trapped forever in that moment of beauty, their petals spread gracefully outward and thick thorns guarding stems silently.  Mary looked at the roses and wondered if her papa would come back for the flowers.  They were so pretty, much prettier than she was, and the _Ladies_ always told her how much he loved his roses.

Thinking that maybe he didn’t come back because he didn’t love her, or that he didn’t love the Gallery, she sat before a row of flowers and drew her knees up to her chest, trying not to cry.  These were papa’s flowers, and Red told her that flowers would die if they were watered by tears.  She couldn’t bring herself to cry around the roses which were the only things she had of him.  she felt a strange sort of connection to Guertena through his roses and the ones that spilled out of her portrait, as if the honey gold blooms in her room were a piece of his garden he had given to her.

She pulled a buttery flower out of her pocket, where she tucked it away when she wasn’t twirling it around, or dragging the head of the flower across the walls as if it were a paintbrush and she was making a trail.  There weren’t any more canary roses left in papa’s garden, a result of Mary picking and playing with them before understanding how fragile they were.  That was okay though, she would fill that gap in the garden’s color.  With her pretty hair that the _Ladies_ cooed over so much and with the roses of her own that never died even when she cried on them.

There was a light shuffling sound and Mary hid in the thorn bushes, carefully so she did not rip her dress.  She wasn’t supposed to be in the garden by herself, because she had picked so many of the roses and the _Ladies_ had grown upset that she was ruining papa’s garden.  She didn’t want any of them getting angry at her so she pressed herself against the bushes until her olive dress blended with the leaves but she could still peek out at the path.

She saw Red drag herself, one hand over another, to the roses and settle her frame on the floor so she could reach up and brush her fingertips across the satin petals of a ruby red flower.

“Weiss,” Mary thought she heard and understood that Red must come there when she missed their creator as well.  Her heart twisted painfully.  Perhaps she wasn’t the only one who worried about papa’s return.

Red plucked the flower from the bush carefully, using her long nails to cut the stem cleanly and bringing it to her nose where she breathed the scent in delicately.  She twisted the stem between her fingers, making it spin into a whirl of bright scarlet that nearly matched her own dress and eyes.

“He loves me,” Red said in a secretive voice, rubbing a petal between her thumb and forefinger gently before plucking it sweetly.

“He loves me not.”  Another petal.

“He loves me…”  The crimson drifted to the ground, their color harsh against the pale tawny of the ground.

The _Lady’s_ face twisted into one of disgust and anger, something between a grin and a grimace showing her teeth and her vermillion eyes bulging into fearsome orbs.  She grasped the blooming flower in her fist and tore the remaining petals from the stem all at once.

“ _Why don’t you love me_?!” she screamed, her voice garbling into a moan.

The torn rose fell from her hand like blood and she watched their descent before reaching up and tearing another rose from its place, thorns tearing into her skin, discarding the stem in her other hand without a thought.

“ _Why did you leave me here_!?”  This flower was lapis blue and its petals joined the scarlet ones on the floor like tears to wash away all the blood spilled.

“ _Why?!  WHY?! **WHY?!**_ ”

She reached deep into the bushes for another flower she could reach with her short stature, lacerating her dress and arms before snatching something and ripping it away from its home.  A yellow flower, unnoticed in Mary’s innocent purge of the garden, glistening and softer than the one she held in her own hands.  More real than anything she could imagine.

Red didn’t even hesitate as she dug her claws into the last golden rose.

Mary clamped her hands over her mouth as she watched this, her chest heaving with forcefully contained sobs and her body shook with fear at watching the one person she thought she could truly rely on descending into madness.  Feeling as the crumpled petals fell that she was also somehow being torn apart.

She thought Red could be relied on, had believed, because of her calmness and surety, that there _was_ hope that her father would return.  Red was the first to greet Weiss in the Gallery, was with him every step of the way as he painted and built the Gallery up.  If Red didn’t believe in him, how could Mary be expected to?

Tears dripped from her eyes and down her cheeks to fall to the ground, not as salty water but thinned, azure paint, like the color of her eyes was draining out with her despair.  Red tore through several more roses, snapping branches and ignoring the tears she received from the thorns, adding more colors to the red, blue, and yellow that littered the ground.  Hands stained in a myriad of the many colored blooms she had torn apart, screams dying into nonsensical growling, and having never even known Mary was there, Red began to shuffle back out of the rose garden.  Mary released her lips with her mother’s departure, but could no longer sob.  She felt more trapped than she ever had before.

When she came back to the gallery, she was quiet.  The _Ladies_ acted nervous as ever, Red was calm and collected, like nothing had ever happened.  Her dolls tried to insist on playing, growing lonely as she ignored them.  The _Individuals_ walked around listlessly without someone to order them around.

Mary felt similarly to all of them.  Nervous, lonely, listless.

She wanted someone to talk to, to play and smile with.  She wanted a _friend_.  Not a doll, or mother, or servant, all of which she had lost faith in.  She wanted someone new who she could believe in, or at least fool herself into believing in.  But no one could be painted or sculpted together anymore.  Mary could draw little things with her crayons like butterflies and fish, but anything bigger didn’t act normally, more similar to the mistakes than anything.

Mary was losing faith not only in the Gallery or her father, but in her very existence.

And that was when she found the painting.

Having stopped in the middle of a long hallway, she was broken out of her purposeless wandering to stare up at it.  Why hadn’t she ever seen it before?  It was so large, taking up a large chunk of the wall, and was probably the most abstract painting she’d seen (and papa liked abstract art so this was saying something.  A place she didn’t know, people she didn’t know, all standing around frames and nondescript sculptures that almost looked familiar.  And as she looked it over the people shifted before settling again, in similar positions but in different places.

There was a _thump_ and she craned her neck to read the runny, medallion gold paint.

“ _Would you like to escape_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I don’t necessarily like Mary all that much, I feel that she’s often misunderstood and was not born as a psychopath but became one as a direct effect of basic lonesome immortality in a finite space.


	3. Fogotten Here

Time didn’t seem to exist in the Gallery.  There was no day and no night, no ticking of a clock, no tiredness that would come equally to the time one spent awake.  There were no windows to see the sun rise or the moon cycle.  The lights never changed to show when the gallery closed or opened, always staying at a dim glow somewhere between being on and off.

He supposed time didn’t really matter anymore.  What would the change of a day do for him anyways?  When he was tired he would sleep, never dreaming and always waking in the same position he had closed his eyes in, while he was awake…well…he wasn’t _always_ bored.  Though there wasn’t much he could do from where he was.  Tied to a painting by ebony, thorny vines.

When he had first woken up he had very little memory of himself or his surroundings.  And as the not-time passed by he felt that was fading too.  Like bubbles that would burst as soon as he tried to catch them.  He felt as though he had fallen and, when he looked up, the frame above him indeed looked like someone had crashed through it, bits of jagged glass clinging to the plain, wooden frame like the sharp teeth of some artificial beast.  The canvas was still in one piece, but the picture that had been painted on it seemed like someone has tossed a cup of chemical wash over it, the colors runny and disjointed, showing the chiffon white beneath.  The vines spilled out of the picture, the only thing unaffected by the blur that conquered the rest of the image, falling from the tip of the frame, curling around the glass edges, spilling out so that it was impossible to tell when they changed from painting to reality.

The rest of the glass laid in sprinkles around him, catching the light as if they were made of crystal.  He had been wary of them at first, careful not to cut himself on the pile, but it had become a source of entertainment whenever he was tired of sleeping.  He’d push little piles of them around to make pictures with the cracks or try to stack them together, careful not to cut his fingers on the sharp edges.

It seemed like such a dismal activity, but there wasn't much else to do as he was tethered to the frame hung on the wall behind him.  The creeping, Indonesian vines twined around his wrists, legs, chest, and neck tight enough to nearly choke him if he twisted his head a certain way, then dispersed across the floor almost to the other side of the hallway.  Here and there, bright cobalt roses popped out from the bramble, as if to entice someone to come close to pick one only to get snagged and pulled in.

The thorns didn’t _usually_ hurt, unless he tried to get away.  Despite their sharp edges, the glass pieces could not cut the brier, though that didn't mean he hadn't spent hours sawing away at a small length of it in hopes escape was nigh.  If he tried to struggle and simply tear himself away they would scrape and jab him, their length piercing his skin wherever they touched and dragging him back to his place under the frame.

The first time he bled was strange.  Since what came from his wounds was not blood, but a thick, crimson paint.

He had been terrified, his memories slowly puttering, his life before being trapped by the barbs calling out to him.  He struggled every opportunity he had but could never get outside that expanse of vines, only managing to dye them a bright red color that did not fade to a darker hue as it dried.  Still, he didn’t stop.  Hoping that maybe one day the thorns would give up or he could overcome them and get away from the _Forgotten Portrait_.  Hoping that maybe he could get out and find a way back to the little girl that had helped him survive a gallery of horrors.

He could remember his time in the Gallery clearly compared to his life before that.  He couldn't recall his favorite food, and though he didn't have to eat this was rather upsetting.  What was the strange tingle in his blood and across his skin as he descended into horrible headaches that he sometimes succumbed to, urging him to check his pockets though he knew they were empty?  Why was his hair such a dark shade of lilac?  What had made his jacket so ragged?  What were his parent’s names?

He was certain there were plenty of memories worth remembering in his life, but he found them all slipping away one by one.  And the worst part of it was: after they were gone, he didn't even know that they were missing.

It wasn’t all just lamenting over his loss of memories and stagnant position; he _did_ have visitors.  He couldn’t say he particularly enjoyed their company at first, but they were visitors none-the-less and anything was better than sitting alone in a twist of bramble playing with a small pile of glass for the rest of his days.

The first visitor he had were the _Ladies_.  Unlike him, they could only get about halfway out of their paintings and dragged themselves across the ground with bleeding fingertips to get around.  He had been curious at first, watching as one in a juniper dress dragged herself forward, not even noticing him and going about her business, whatever it was.  They didn’t heed his presence very often, though he couldn't complain.  Memories of being chased by them would flicker in and out of existence in his head, making him freeze whenever he started to hear their shuffling, praying silently they wouldn't notice him.

But now and again they would stop and turn toward him, a low growl bubbling around them, eyes transfixed on him and his blooming flowers, then he’d see a maniac grin take over their usually somber expression and he would fight back a shriek at the sight.  But before they could even come to him the thorns would spring to life, tearing at the _Lady’s_ hair and clothes until the entire painting was made of shreds and the only thing left of them was a beaten up frame entangled in the vines.  He had noticed that they didn’t bleed like he did.

They never talked, only moaning when they saw him and their sisters trapped in the spikes or giving a small whimper at the edge of the circle, eyes drawing hazily between him and the blue flowers around him.  He couldn’t tell what they wanted exactly, but knew that to give one a rose was to end his life.  If it could be considered a life anymore.

There was a red one that he thought sought him out sometimes, who would sit at the edge of his circle, expression switching between intense sorrow and hatred though she never made any moves other than to gently reach out to him before leaving sullenly when he gave no answer.  She didn't come often, but her sad, ruby eyes always put him in a bad mood afterwards.

The other near-human visitors who would come to see him were the _Individuals_.  For some reason, these ones seemed smarter than the paintings, even though they had no discernable head to speak of, and always stayed outside of the vines reach.  They couldn’t speak, but they would come as close as they dared and would move their hands animatedly, as if they were talking to him.  Seeing as they were rather civil towards him, he would often just nod his head and pretend he could hear them.  They seemed happy with that and he was relieved with their company, however strange it was.

He wasn’t sure whether to call the heads visitors or not, since not once did they get truly close to him.  He would see them peeking around corners, usually looking normal-normal being porcelain, unblinking stares that set him on edge for every moment they were there-but now and then they would appear with scarlet streaks down their cheeks and he would feel glad that his prison acted equally as a shield.  They were unsettling and he tried to just ignore them.  They would leave as suddenly as they would appear, with no sound announcing the change in position and no actual visual of their movement.  Of course, this just made them even less desirable guests in his hall, so he didn’t mind the distance they kept at all.

Once though, after he had gotten fed up with their disturbing presence and had yelled at one to leave him alone he had next woken up to see rows of them circling his territory, still with lack of expression but intent very clear.  From then on he studiously ignored them, picking at the hem of his jacket or toying with his glass pile whenever they were around.

The only other visitors he received were the dolls.  At first he had been terrified of them.  Some lingering memory shouting at him to get away as quickly as possible but being unable to from his place in the thorns.  They smiled at him—always smiling—and would stand on the outskirts of his area, cocking their heads back and forth and looking at him curiously.  Sometimes he would hear something like a stamp slamming down and would turn his head to see writing painted on the wall nearby, asking him to play or if he was going to be with them forever.  He didn’t like talking to them, but they certainly did.  The menagerie of words on the wall around him was a rainbow of colors.

Eventually, they made up a game with his vines.  They would fly into the danger zone, ducking between the creeping plants and swinging around thorns until they landed on his head, shoulders, and lap, where the vines would begrudgingly calm around him again.  It seemed to be the prize, if one could make it across the expanse of spikes to him.  Though that didn’t stop a multitude of doll bodies from piling up in the bristle field.

One day, as he was tapping two pieces of glass together to make some kind of single toned song, an idea struck him.  The dolls were rolling around outside his thorn field, playing some form of tag when he leaned forward as far as he dared.

“Can you get me some paper and a pencil?”

The dolls stopped their playing, the indigo smiles still there, staring at him for a moment before they all jumped up at once, excitedly flying off.  He guessed they were going to do what he asked, though was confused about why they were so excited about it.

A bit later, four came back, each carrying something different.  They tossed a sketchbook and three crayons to him over the inky thorns where he caught them with a deftness he had forgotten he possessed.  Blue, yellow, and red crayons with a blank, parchment book.  The dolls soon joined him, finding positions on and around him so they could watch him draw.

He was surprised about the colors they chose, as they fit his purpose perfectly, though wasn’t completely glad about the utensil choice.  He would have preferred any type of pencil over crayons, but he couldn’t really complain to the childlike things.  They probably wouldn’t understand anyways.

He had to write it down before he truly forgot.  The reason why he was here.  The reason why he would always be looking for a way out.  The reason why he couldn’t just continue sleeping.

Ib, the little girl who might still be out there in the gallery, who probably thought he was dead.  Mary, the painting child who had killed him in one of the most innocent ways possible.  And himself.  The _Forgotten Portrait_ and why he wouldn’t allow himself to forget.

_My name is Garry._


	4. Chapter 4

Ib paused a moment to catch her breath as she reached the picnic table sitting beneath the shade of a barbour-green tree before setting down her backpack and the little paper bag she was carrying.  It wasn’t often that she was the first one there, as her classes could get intense and were meant to immerse the students in their work, but it seemed like her hurry was for nothing.  Well, that gave her some time to do homework then.

Plopping down and getting out her books she let the warm summery air sooth her, opening up the paper bag and laying out several fluffy cookies that resembled hamburgers in pastels of all shades.  The woman who had served her knew Ib well by now and when prompted to make the flavors a surprise picked out the ones she liked best.  It was surprisingly nice, having such a predictable schedule that even the lady at the bakery she visited once a week knew who she was and what her favorite cookies and coffee flavors were.  A norm she could rely on no matter how the day was like.  She picked up a champagne pink one, expecting the flavor of strawberries before it even touched her tongue.

Getting out her books, she figured it was best to get a rough draft for art history class. Flipping to the beginning of chapter five, Ib simultaneously picked up and took a bite out of another macaroon.  When she was first introduced to the cookie she actually hadn’t liked them, not having much if any of a sweet tooth.  But Garry had been so excited to have her try them; so she had lied, saying they were delicious, prompting her friend to push a whole plate of rainbow treats at her.

She was too good of an actress though, because for a long time he would bring a small bag of some nearly every time he visited.  After a while, she did start to enjoy them and now they were actually one of her favorite treats.  She still hadn’t told Garry she didn’t used to like them, too embarrassed after so much time had passed without her saying anything.  She didn’t mind too much though, as he still would bring them over now and then.

She flipped the page and stopped.  The name of an old painter in the middle of a paragraph and a painting of a young, blond girl on the other page glared out from the page and she fully believed they would attempt to struggle out of the pages at any moment.

_…Guertena.  Not widely known in life but revered in death, Weiss Guertena is now known as an innovative and widely creative artist whose timeless paintings will continue to bring questions and awe for centuries to come…Above: Guertena’s last known made painting “Mary” depicting a small girl around ten years old surrounded by yellow flowers.  It is debated whether “Mary” has any connection to Guertena’s daughter or not as the two look nothing alike and “Mary” was closer to the age of his grandson at the time._

Ib swallowed, not even processing the soft, sweet mush as it slid over her tongue and down her throat but staring at the image on the page.

Mary stood within her four walls, buttery-gold flowers spread around her feet, as if it were a second threshold that held her in place.  They had no thorns, as if completely harmless and she mirrored them with the visage of a sweet young girl.  She had a round face with a beaming smile, eyes wide and curious.  For all intents and purposes she seemed kind and good.

Ib had avoided Guertena’s work for a long time despite her major and how renowned he was, feeling a mix of emotions for each painting that classmates and teachers wouldn’t understand.  Why she could still see traces of her parents in _The Couple_ , why she would slam the page down whenever she saw _The Red Lady_ , why she had an intense dislike for Eavesdropper or _Flowers of Jealousy_.  But Mary…she couldn’t truly hate.

Fear, yes, but hate?  Seeing Mary made her remember many things; having a friend her age when she was afraid, having someone she believed to be courageous and offer her a smile at every twist and turn, thinking that, with the three of them, they could escape.  But there were also images of a little girl chasing her with a palette knife, looking anywhere between frantic and psychotic, or of a child going up in flames, tears in her eyes as she burned like paper.

Ib closed the book with shaking hands.  It seemed beyond cruel for her painting to have remained unchanged.

“Hello there, Ib!”

Her head snapped up and turned to where a man was quickly approaching her, waving his hand cheerfully, his tall boots crunching the jade grass between the sidewalk and the picnic table.  She was wearing one of the sleek uniforms students on campus wore that were comfy enough though the colors reminded her of carrots and pennies, but he had sort of a simple yet stylish outfit, made to match his pulled back, iris hair.  It had been cornflower blue last week, but he changed it so often she easily recognized him.

She was still a little shaken, but pulled up a smile anyway.  “Hi Garry.”

“I’m very sorry I’m so late!”  It hadn’t been all that long.  “I couldn’t seem to find a parking spot, haha!”  He grinned at her, reaching the table, but looked at her books and it turned sympathetic.  “Are midterms approaching?”

“Extra credit.”

“Ah!”  Garry had turned thirty recently, but was still the more childish of the two of them.  He said the lemon candies were in his pocket for nicotine cravings, but both she and his boyfriend knew he just had an absurd sweet tooth.

As if to attest to the fact, his heather eyes lit up when he saw the macaroons.  “My, my, do you feel like sharing today?”  With a gesture to help himself he picked up one that was a shade of periwinkle similar to his hair, and nibbled on it happily.

This was another norm that Ib could relax in, though this had been going on for years.  At first they saw each other to keep their sanity.  They rarely talked about the Gallery or what had happened there, but having someone who just knew and understood what they had gone through was comforting enough.  To the bewilderment of her parents, and maybe themselves as well, they had actually become good friends beyond the mental stability.  And they were still very close.

He lost patience with himself quickly and dropped the rest of the soft cookie in his mouth, craning his head to look at her notes.  “What is your paper about?”

Ib began to explain her five page paper on use of surrealism through art history.  It was easy, she said, because some of her favorite artists were surrealists.

Garry listened closely to her, an interested smile on at all times.  Her teachers, and even her friends sometimes, complained that she was so quiet and spoke so little that it was hard to tell what she was thinking, but Garry never seemed to have that problem, or if he did he never voiced the issue.  Ib didn’t have to think about whether she was making sense or whether he could hear her speak up because he always listened attentively to her, despite how much younger she was.  It had been a surprising trait when she was younger and when she grew up it was relieving to rely on him for an easy conversation.

Eventually they both took out their sketch books and cameras to show one another what they’d been working on.  Garry had several new sketches to show her of pleated skirts and Ib had taken a few pictures of a canvas she was working on in different lights.

Strangely, Ib had found that the best way to deal with the horror so the past was to paint about them.  Garry did something similar, holing himself away in the tiny studio he called home and pouring himself into whatever line of clothes he was working on at the time.  They had both found a habit of keeping a sketchbook on their nightstands, wanting a pencil in their hands the moment they woke up from a nightmare.

Ib often wondered if she only liked painting after having been to the Gallery, but Garry told her that it would more likely have made her want to have nothing to do with art again.  She couldn't deny though that the Gallery had a long-withstanding hold on all her work.  She often found petals of roses in her work, or smiles that were a little too wide to be convincing, or a look of profound sadness in children’s eyes.  Her teachers had all thought it was purposeful and gave her outstanding remarks on bringing true emotion into her work, but it was all very unsettling for her.

She flipped a notebook open to a page filled with bullet points from earlier that day in class, intending to ask Garry about her paper topic and what artists he thought would make for an interesting discussion.  Reaching for a pencil from her bag, she was reminded the book was still laying by her right elbow, having been forgotten when her friend had arrived.

Garry was asking her if she’d like to come over for dinner that weekend, for no particular reason.  He was flipping through another sketchbook, a pencil tilting elegantly over his ear like a slip of wheat in a field of lavender, his eyes focused on the figures he had drawn himself.  Discretely, she slipped the book back into her backpack, moving another book into the empty space so he would not notice it was gone.

They were safe now.  There was no reason to stay trapped in the Gallery when they had escaped years ago.

“…and I know you enjoy visiting your parents some weekends, so I wanted to ask before you made plans.”  Garry looked up from his booklet to Ib smiling at the open notebook before her, where she tapped her pencil on the edge of an elegant rose with five wide petals had been drawn by an idle hand during one of her classes.

“Yes,” she said in her quiet voice.  “I would like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed the ride! Leave a comment with some constructive criticism or a kudos to let me know you liked it ;)


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